The Collective(41)

According to the GPS, we’re just five minutes from our destination, and this last part of the ride feels like the end of a fireworks show, Wendy plowing down a series of narrow unpaved roads through thick woods, one sharp turn, then another, then another, the sleek car bucking and leaping, releasing puffs of dirt. The thing in the trunk thuds and clangs with each turn, but I don’t say a word about it. We’re not supposed to open it. We’ll never know what it is. Or who it is.

Finally Wendy says, “What do you think is back there?”

“No idea.”

Wendy glances at me, then turns back to her driving.

The GPS says, “Turn right on Lake Road,” and we emerge from the wooded area, a shimmering lake spreading out before us, reflecting the stars. At the same time, we gasp. It’s beautiful. Snow-dusted evergreen trees, a row of log cabins, boarded up and abandoned for the season, traces of powdery snow on their roofs and windowsills, light as confectioners’ sugar on a gingerbread house. It’s as though we’ve driven into a painting, everything perfect and peaceful and absolutely still.

“Would you look at that?” Wendy says as the headlights hit a large sign up ahead that reads CAMP ACACIA. “A summer camp,” she says. “What better place to get rid of something in the winter?”

“Good thing the lake isn’t frozen.”

The GPS tells us to drive seventy-five feet. And then: “Your destination is on the right.”

Wendy turns onto a long, sloping concrete dock—a boat launch—stopping just shy of the edge. There are no boats hitched to it, of course. Like the rest of this summer camp, the canoes and kayaks and rowboats are hibernating somewhere, making the permanent structures like this dock feel ghostly and strange.

Our destination.

I open the glove compartment, where the lighter and the flip phone have been placed side by side. I take them out. Two burners. There’s something poetic in that, isn’t there? The synonymnity of it all. Is that a word? Are these real thoughts? Is this a dream?

Wendy puts the car into neutral, and we both get out. We walk around to the back, one on each side, our eyes on the trunk. Wendy says it again. “What do you think is in there?”

“I don’t know.”

Something pounds against the metal.

Wendy says, “Should we open it?”

“The note said—”

“I know.” She turns to me. “But we weren’t supposed to talk, either, and we’ve been talking all night.”

“Yeah, but—”

“I know.”

“This warning feels more important. Doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

We move toward the trunk and place our gloved hands against it, side by side, but a noise erupts from the metal—an animal sound, much like the one I heard when we stopped at the free library in Hollandville. We stare at each other.

Bear, I’d thought the first time I heard this, then chalked it up to my mind, to my exhausted imagination playing tricks on me. But no. This is real. Wendy hears it too.

“Wow.”

I hear myself say, “Give me the key.”

Wendy gapes at me. “You really think we should?”

We hear it again. A muffled cry. Human.

Wendy is balancing the keys in the palm of her hand. I pluck them away from her, more out of reflex than legitimate decision making.

“Wait. I don’t think we should . . .”

I can’t help it. I am unable to continue without seeing, without knowing.

“Oh my God,” Wendy says.

I’ve done it. I’ve clicked the trunk icon on the key fob and it’s sailed open. I pull my flashlight out of the pocket of my hoodie and shine it on the figure inside.

“It’s him,” Wendy says. “It’s him. Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.”

He’s been gagged with what looks like dark pantyhose, face contorted, arms tied behind his back, legs lashed together. He writhes like a giant bug, and then he is still, his face shifting into focus. Bright blue eyes in the flashlight beam. His shirt, ripped and sweat-stained, but tailored. Expensive. The square jaw. The salt-and-pepper hair. Fake hair. Fake tan. I know him. I know you.

“Holy shit,” Wendy says again.

It’s the billionaire who killed 2223’s daughter. Three months in a Club Fed. A mansion on Long Island. He raped her repeatedly. Passed her around to his friends. He broke her spirit, 2223 typed. He killed her soul.

I’ve seen pictures of him in the papers, online. At charity events, yukking it up with politicians, his beautiful age-appropriate wife at his side. That smugness radiating from his flat, fake smile. We’ve both seen him. We both know him. He is the type of person everyone knows, because he is so shallow, you can fully know from a picture.

But still . . .

His eyes lock with mine. The pain in them. The fear.

I make myself think about 2223. Her daughter. Did he show her mercy? Did he think about how young she was, how easily hurt? Did he ever view her parents as anything more than a nuisance? Your pain is not human. Your fear is not human. You are a monster. You deserve to die.

He moans out a word. It’s muffled by the gag. There’s blood on his face, across the front of his shirt. He has a wound under his eye. Scratches across his neck. What they did to him. What we did to him. “Help. Please help.”